


Apathy

by Transistance



Series: Incompatible [1]
Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Canon Trans Character, First Dates, Other, Reapers, Restaurants, Watching Someone Sleep
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-30
Updated: 2015-07-31
Packaged: 2018-04-12 02:28:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4461875
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Transistance/pseuds/Transistance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I mean, <i>yes</i>, we've worked together for quite a while now – it's been great – but this is our first actual date. Ah, not that this is a date... This is a senior... thing.”</p><p>Grell convinces William to take her out for dinner, and he finds her unexpectedly companionable.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A senior... thing.

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Magyar available: [Apátia (magyar)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7883851) by [ShinigamiCara](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiCara/pseuds/ShinigamiCara)



> My apologies for the fact that Grell's pronouns are all over the place. William is a mess.
> 
> Am I going to juggle two series at once? Yes, apparently so. Is this one straight up Grelliam fics? Yes, yes it is. Nobody dies. I promise 0 angst of the death kind. I make no promises about any other kind of angst, which may or may not hit home.  
>  
> 
> (If you would like to read this in Hungarian, there is a [translated work](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7883851) by the lovely [ShinigamiCara](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ShinigamiCara)!)

He knew what his sin was. It wasn't gluttony or greed, envy or even pride, no matter how much that seemed to come across. It wasn't wrath or lust.

William's sin was apathy.

He could bring himself to dislike things, usually. If they caused him hassle or additional work or professional chagrin, he could frown and utter barbed words to express this annoyance before dealing with them as best he could and moving on. He could feel disgust and irritation. But for the most part, he didn't care. He simply couldn't care.

Sometimes he tried to tell himself that it was the job that had clipped his emotions. That the endless cycle of paperwork and death had permanently disabled any strong feeling, distancing him from the world and the unpleasant nature of reapings. But he knew that he had never cared much at all for the individuals below, or even above his station – he was a cog in the machine of eternity, and as one part of a greater whole he had no use for feelings. Or perhaps his lack of feelings had prompted him to take this job, assuming that it would make him experience something closer to fulfilment than his previous bland presence. He didn't know, and didn't much care.

The reaper's circling thoughts were cut short by the unexpected and unwanted sound of his office door banging open and closed, signalling the arrival of a co-worker. A noisy, impolite co-worker – enough to deduce the intruder's identity from, even if he hadn't seen the swathe of crimson that accompanied the sudden and grandiose entrance.

“Wi— _iiill_!” the intruder sang, prancing into the room with an ease of motion that suggested he'd learned to crawl wearing those stupid heels, clattering them against the floor with a noise that promised marks and coming to rest abruptly at William's desk, leaning on it with both hands to steady himself. “Will, darling, I don't suppose you happen to have a stapler handy? I seem to have misplaced mine, and it has been _ages_ since I've seen you-”

If his scythe had been closer by he would not have hesitated to deliver a sharp blow to Grell's face, and hang the consequences. It had been almost a week since the scarlet bastard had come anywhere near William's office, and given the fact that there were sixteen accessible offices between them he doubted he would get rid of Grell through the mere gesture of handing over a stapler (which he knew he'd never see again).

Still, it was worth a try.

“Here you go,” he said coldly, picking up the appliance and holding it out. “Try not to _misplace_ this one.”

Grell beamed – perhaps in genuine happiness, it was always hard to tell – and leaned much further forward than was necessary to take the stapler, making sure that their hands brushed against each other in doing so.

“Oh, _thank you_ , Will!” he gushed, and William fought the urge to move his entire desk backward a few feet. “I always know I can count on you, my reliable, handsome man.”

“I am not your man.” It was not the first time he'd said that. It was probably not even the hundredth time he'd said that, over the years, but it seemed to have no effect. William returned his attentions to the paperwork before him, hoping that this encounter would break tradition and Grell would just leave.

He didn't, of course. He edged round the desk and angled his head to peer down at the paperwork, letting his impractical hair fall over the words and just stood there for a moment, apparently reading. After thirty seconds passed he gave a little sigh, flicked his hair over his shoulder and exclaimed, “Really! How on _Earth_ can you do this all day? It's so... so monotonous!”

“Believe it or not, it does get done a lot faster when I don't have an errant co-worker hanging over my shoulder.”

“Oh? Am I a _distraction,_ Will?” Grell smirked and stepped closer, swinging his hips – _no that's too close to me, go away please_ – in a disgusting display of misplaced pleasure. “It _would_ be a shame if you didn't get this all finished, now, wouldn't it? I know how much you enjoy being...” he paused, licked his lips. “Punctual.”

Dear god, how could he twist those words into an innuendo? How could anyone read ' _punctual_ ' as an innuendo? It was definitely time for Grell to take his leave, and hopefully not return for days, at least.

“Sutcliff, what exactly do you want from me?”

Of course, as soon as the words left his mouth he knew they were a mistake. It had been a trap all along, and he had walked straight into it. Grell took the moment to close the space between their heads and moaned – had the audacity to actually, fully _moan -_ into his ear. 

“Aaa _aaaa_ hhh, _Will_ , I can't say that in _pub_ lic-”

“No. You know what I mean. Let me rephrase that: why are you still in my office, and what will it take for you to leave?”

The redhead looked slightly put out for a second, but recovered quickly and took half a step back before addressing William again.

“Well, you see...” He blushed slightly, perhaps for a more honest reason than usual, and began twirling a strand of his red hair around one finger, staring at it as if he suddenly didn't want to meet his superior's eyes. “Well. As you may or may not have heard, the majority of our faculty have organised another group date tonight, and I thought-”

William broke into an incredulous laugh before Grell could finish, for the first time in... several decades, at least. He did his best to smother the noise immediately, and fixed Grell with a pointed stare which, he hoped, conveyed his full thoughts on group dates.

“I hate to break this to you, Sutcliff, but that's really not... my sort of thing.”

“Oh, _no_ , Will, darling, I know that.” The man giggled quietly, clearly finding the idea as amusing as William had. “No, I thought, seeing as group dates _aren't_ your thing, and they certainly aren't mine – noisy, public, a complete lack of intimacy – well... _We_ could do something. A senior get-together or something. Something fun.” His eyebrows danced.

“No.”

The red reaper's face fell abruptly. “Why not?”

He looked genuinely upset, which was a new and not entirely pleasant sight. Usually he would not take no for an answer, going to great lengths to pretend not to understand or to have a moral high ground or, in worst case scenarios, sulk. Disappointment was not a vibrant enough emotion to colour Grell's face.

William wondered again what the fastest way to get rid of him would be. He couldn't simply tell him to piss off, as much as he wanted to; Grell would throw the worst tantrum the office had ever seen. If he said he was busy the other would demand to know why, and then try to worm his way into whatever excuse Will came up with.

He sighed.

“I prefer to keep my home life separate from my work life.”

It was not an entirely watertight excuse, but Grell seemed to accept it, releasing a much deeper, more heartfelt sigh than William just had, as though trying to prove something. He took one step back, then another, and came to a filing cabinet, which he reclined against in a slightly lost manner. Closely examined his dress-code-violating crimson nails and muttered, “You'd be fine with it if I was... If I were really a woman.”

It took several seconds for the accusation to fully sink in, and another few for its implications to follow. Grell thought his _gender_ was what led people to dislike him? He also thought that William was more interested in females than males, but that was a non-issue despite being incorrect.

It took one more horrific realization for William to understand that Grell had almost certainly been rejected in parallel situations to this based on gender alone.

He found himself floundering for the words to dispel this notion – words that were not there. Anything he said would come across weak and fake, a compulsory denial and impersonal dismissal. Which was admittedly exactly what he had wanted to achieve, but Grell looked... broken.

A broken Grell Sutcliff was no use to anyone.

He frowned down at his desk, riddled with uncertainty. He frowned at the man who was still in his office, staring at his hands as though they held the secrets of eternity.

William T. Spears stood up.

“What exactly do you have in mind when you say a 'get-together'?”

///

He left the office at 6:00 pm exactly, as per usual, and stood at the door to wait. His co-workers filed out past him, alone and in groups, some pausing to chat and merge with other groups before leaving, others immediately beelining it away from work. He usually was usually included in the latter group, and it was a change to have people pass him and sometimes give cheery “Have a nice evening, Sir,”s. He returned the words when they came from individuals whose names he knew, nodded politely at those he didn't. Sutcliff was nowhere to be seen.

Where was he, honestly? Although he'd certainly never been renowned for good timekeeping – or any timekeeping at all, really – William had thought that Grell would turn up fairly promptly for events that he himself had initiated. It seemed he had been mistaken.

He scanned the crowd again, but the result was unchanged; a conspicuous lack of loud-mouthed red-heads. The only person to halfway fit that bill was a woman sitting on a bench a short way away with her back to the office, her reddish hair braided into a plait that disappeared over her shoulder, showing off the slightly darker shade of her dress. Occasionally a passer-by would stop to talk to her, and she would raise her head – she seemed to be reading something, as far as he could tell from here – and interact happily for a few moments before they turned away and she returned to her book. He wondered if she was waiting for someone late, too.

The crowd had half cleared before she turned slightly – glancing behind her to address Ronald Knox, who had clapped a hand to her shoulder and doubtless said something highly inappropriate – giving him a view of her face in profile, and the penny finally dropped.

It wasn't a shock, really. Grell was well renowned for cross-dressing – there probably wasn't a reaper this side of the border who didn't know about it. He had never actually seen the man in a dress (thankfully he at least held that degree of professionalism at work, small as it was) but...

He hadn't expected him to look so comfortable.

In truth, it was difficult to fully equate the woman on the bench with the red reaper from his dispatch. She moved slightly differently. Looked more... delicate? Certainly smaller, and more at ease.

Knox left with a laugh that carried across the yard, and suddenly William found himself one of only two reapers left.

Approaching her – _him_ – was more difficult than it should have been. She – he – hadn't looked round again, and William felt a familiar sense of irritation beginning to surface. Grell Sutcliff was _acting_ again, perfectly poised and almost certainly waiting to spring an elaborate, distasteful trap.

“You skived off work to dress up for this, didn't you, Sutcliff?”

The words came out harsher than intended and William regretted them as soon as the lady turned to face him. She was definitely Grell – same eyes, although wider and more lidded than usual, same distinctly masculine figure, same garish glasses – but was also not Grell at the same time. Her features seemed to have been toned down to look soft, her lips were noticeably coloured, her hair was orderly and neat. The only thing to crack this fair maiden-type persona was the book held loosely in her lap – a 'Young Adult' romance novel that could almost certainly be classed as wildly inappropriate and highly unrealistic.

“Oh, Will, Will, _Will_ ,” she trilled, and grinned – suddenly reverting fully and unintentionally back to Grell in his entirety. “Surely even you are aware that first impressions are more important that a little paperwork?”

“This is not a first impression. This is several decades too late to try and create a 'first impression'.”

Grell pouted. “There's no need to be so _stiff_ all the time, you know. I mean, _yes,_ we've worked together for quite a while now – it's been great – but this is our first actual date. Ah, not that this is a date... This is a senior... thing.”

He put two fingers against his mouth in a vaguely confused gesture, then stood with a dramatic flourish that made his skirts swirl and cried, “But enough! Where shall we go?”

William found himself frowning again, and almost unconsciously pushed his glasses up. “I assumed you would have planned and rehearsed every aspect of this “Senior thing”, Sutcliff. But of course your lack of organisation skills extends outwith the office. Of course it does.”

He knew he was being cruel, much more so than he had any right to be, but he didn't care. He didn't care if he was viewed as rude, he certainly wouldn't care if this escapade was cut short; he didn't care if he hurt Grell Sutcliff's elastic feelings.

But she – _he_ , he was still male, the fact that he was in a dress made him no less male than when he was in a waistcoat – just smiled in a condescending manner and said, “I am a lady, Will, and ladies do not organize. Or... Some ladies organize, but I'm not one of them. Let's get food.”

He let the book disappear from that plane with a slight snap, then attached himself to William's arm – _no, don't do that –_ and began to walk as abruptly as the words had been, half-dragging the taller reaper behind him. They had almost reached the end of the courtyard before Grell decided to jump without warning, ripping William across into the mortal world which was full of light and noise and movement.

They stumbled out onto a road in a manner most comparable to a pair of very drunken revellers, narrowly avoiding being crushed under a cab almost immediately. Grell was laughing his stupid head off, and William felt his temper rise suddenly and sharply enough to merit shoving the other man into a wall, which he did.

“What was _that_ for?” Grell cried indignantly, promoting one or two passers by to throw concerned or disapproving looks at them. William glared down at him and wondered if he could get pulled up for abandoning a subordinate in the street without full jump power. It was probably best not to risk it.

“You do _not_ jump to unspecified coordinates, you do not jump within mortal view, you absolutely _do not_ pair jump without explicit warning,” he hissed. “Grell Sutcliff, you have no sense of forward thinking, do you?”

“Um... No, darling, I don't believe I do.” He picked himself up and brushed his skirt down distractedly, adding, “And there's really no need to call me 'Grell Sutcliff' every time you feel like saying my name. Nobody is going to mark you down for 'inappropriate levels of informality' or whatever out here. We're _alone_ ,” - he moved closer again, and William took a step back - “Just you, me, and these few hundred humans or so.”

“But that doesn't change the fact that you're a subordinate of mine, Grell Sutcliff, and this is still officially a business meeting.”

She – he, he, _he_ – quirked one red eyebrow at that. “'Officially'? You don't mean to tell me that you're going to claim _expenses_ on this little outing?”

“The outcome of that decision will depend on how much work is discussed.”

 _Sick_ was possibly the closest word to describing his resulting malicious grin. “Oh, _Will_ ,” he purred, flirtation dripping from him like sweat. “You _are_ a fool if you think I'll allow the conversation to move within a mile's radius of the office.”

“Good.” The reply came with more feeling than intended, and according to Grell's slightly surprised expression had not conveyed what he'd wanted it to. The situation needed remedying.

“I told you I prefer to keep my home life separate from work,” he explained, bluntly. “Anything I do out of hours should not relate to the office or any of its inhabitants whatsoever.”

“Hm!” said Grell, smirking again. “And yet you are here with _me_ , a humble inhabitant of said office. What should I make of this?”

“I doubt anything I say will affect what you'll make of this, in all honesty.” The way Grell was looking at him made his skin crawl, and he wondered if there was anything at all that could be said to dig himself out of this mess. _Let's be honest, you walked into this. You_ agreed _to this_.

Being aware that the blame rested squarely on his shoulders didn't help things at all – if anything it irritated him further. “Where are we going, Sutcliff?”

“I don't know; there's lots of good places to eat round here. Do you have any pre _fer_ en _ces_?”

The question was clearly an innuendo of some kind – he could see it in Grell's face – but William ignored it. “No,” he said shortly, and then realized that giving Grell free choice over all 'places to eat' in the city was a terrible idea. “Somewhere respectable would be nice.”

“Of course!” Grell gasped with fake and effeminate shock, and added coyly, “As _if_ I'd take my man somewhere unfitting of his respectability. Oh, for shame!” A wink preceded the final answer. “There's a nice place up the road here. Quiet, stately, and, yes, _respectable._ Come on.”

She – _oh my god, just pick a pronoun and stick with it!_ \- grabbed his hand again and took off, flouncing down the street with him in tow as though showing him off to the people of London. Attempting to keep up with her and retain some small sense of dignity was difficult and distracting, and prevented him from keeping an accurate awareness of where they were going. They kept taking side-streets, and the horrible thought that she could be leading him anywhere made itself known to William unhelpfully. He didn't trust Grell, not at all – but on the other hand, he doubted the man would hurt him. Or could hurt him, even. Either way, his fears soon proved unfounded – Grell came to halt outside a small, quaint-looking pub, and spread his arms as though grandly announcing its presence to the world.

“Here we are!” she cried, beaming both at William and the building. “Serves meal 'til 9, drinks as long as customers are willing to pay. The food is rather better than you'd expect going by outward appearance.”

Visual scrutinization alone could provide no solid basis to build assumptions on, but the pub really did look like a bona fide catering service. It had dull grey tiles slating its roof dull brown frames round dull, smoke-tarnished windows and a sad looking dull sign hanging above the door – the name was illegible, but a worn logo of a stag's head could just about be made out. All in all it didn't look like the sort of place Grell would be expected to hang out – but perhaps even the red reaper needed downtime sometimes.

“What's its name?”

“The Stag's Head. Not the most novel name, I'll grant you, but it's a lovely wee place.”

“So you've said.” He nodded, accepting that it was genuine, and pushed open the heavy door.


	2. To sleep, perchance to dream.

The first impression upon entering was one of warmth, and he discovered the interior to be much more pleasant than could be expected going by the outside. It was only small, seeming smaller due to its dark walls and furniture, but there was a grated fireplace in one corner providing heat and a low hum of conversations from the occupied tables. As Grell had said it was quiet – easily less than a third of the tables were taken – but not so much as to be uneasily silent or private. A smartly dressed waiter met and seated the reapers, greeting Grell with a polite smile and a “Hello again, Miss Sutcliff,” before handing over menus and leaving again. William relaxed.

Grell seemed to have become engrossed in the wine list - “They've got some new French reds since I was last here,” he heard him mutter to himself – and glancing down at the food available, William found himself quite surprised at the range. Clearly this was a proper little restaurant rather than an explicit pub. Good.

Grell ended up ordering the second most expensive item on offer, although he had the feeling that that was more to do with the fact that said item was a red steak rather than to wind him up about costs, and he opted for a salad to start and then a vegetable casserole. As the waiter retreated again, Grell frowned over at William and raised one eyebrow.

“Are you a veggie, Will?”

“...I beg your pardon, a what?”

“Vegetarian.”

“Oh. No,” he shook his head, disarmed by the uncharacteristic normality of the question. “No, I'm happy enough to eat meat, I just don't have any particular fondness for it.”

A grin flickered across her face for a heartbeat and he wondered exactly what he'd said wrong, but she hid it quickly and shifted her expression to one of friendly contentment. Hell, it would be far too easy to forget exactly who she was here, dressed differently, acting differently, and he wondered if the prospect should worry or please him.

It did neither, because she was still his subordinate and even if he could tolerate her like this her more usual personality still existed, merely temporarily buried under the layers of makeup and dress.

 _She_. That was a problem. Grell Sutcliff was not female, no matter how much he protested against that fact; his femininity was just another tagline, just another one of the many smiling faces he turned to the world. This was the solid fact that William had based his every opinion of Sutcliff on, and he could feel it slowly coming apart at the seams.

He had always assumed the theatrics, the loud proclamations of “ _I_ am a _lady_!” to have been direct means of attention seeking, or a way for Sutcliff to make himself more attractive to the various men he hounded. But he just...

He just looked so natural in that bloody dress.

Not that clothing was the deciding factor of Grell's gender. It just made the problem visual, startlingly unavoidable – and he remembered with a surge of guilt the small pile of forms, sent with lesser and lesser frequency as the years went on, sitting in one near untouched corner of his filing cabinet. _Grell Sutcliff, official request for recognition of gender discrepancy. Grell Sutcliff, official request for recognition of gender discrepancy. Grell Sutcliff, official request for recognition of gender discrepancy_.

The first one he'd received he took to be a joke, and denied without any thought. That had been two months after he'd first been promoted to managerial status, and Grell's attitudes toward things like his body and his internal self were beginning to strengthen. William assumed the second letter to be a cry for attention, and ignored Sutcliff's quiet request in passing the next day that he be referred to as 'she'. All further letters he dismissed as an attempt to irritate him, and only got more annoyed by Grell's displays of diversion from the standards held by every other reaper in the office. _Denied, denied, denied._

He had no idea if Grell knew that it was he who was in charge of that level of paperwork or not, and he decided not to bring it up. Shaking himself from these thoughts proved a bad idea – he found her watching him, eyes slightly narrowed, as though he'd zoned out completely.

“You're staring a bit, darling. Something on your mind?”

“Nothing important.” There had been a split second where he'd almost just said, ' _You_ ,' and he thanked the heavens that he'd managed to bite his tongue on that in time. It was the truth, right enough, and nothing aside – but she would of course hear it as a grand declaration of love, lust and everything in between, and he was never going to give her cause to believe that. Time to change the subject. “Do you come here often? How did you find this place?”

To his relief she gave a genuine smile, and said nothing more on the topic of his mind.

Small talk had never exactly been an asset of his (the only time he'd ever found it to be required was at formal managerial dinners, which usually ended with one or two of the more senior managers droning on about protocol too dull even for William, so he tended to spend the evenings exchanging meaningless glances with the other younger administrators), but Grell seemed to hold the gift of being able to lead a conversation wherever she so pleased, conducting it here and there as though led by the baton of a madman. And to her credit she successfully avoided the topic of the office for as long as was humanely possible, nattering on instead about the current political changes going on in the human world; the sudden decline in smallpox outbreaks; the latest running trends in the clothing industries. _Lace_ was going _out_ of fashion, she informed him, as though this were some terrible scandal that he was to be devastated by, and _chiffon_ was making a comeback. The words meant little to him, but it was a relief to not be expected to give comment.

The food arrived as she was half way through describing in great detail the current debate over the use of ermine furs – “It just isn't _ethical_ , you see, Will, but it's so _nice,_ ” - and he was glad of the break in conversation.

The supposed break in conversation.

There was no break in the conversation.

Grell Sutcliff did not stop talking.

She paused only to give a brief thanks to the waiter and then compliment the food – huge and practically bleeding, the thing looked like it had been cut from a mammoth rather than a cow, and rather put his own choice to shame. She cut into it with distracted enthusiasm, still going on about clothes.

William opted to simply zone out whilst he ate the meal - it wasn't as though he was contributing to the conversation anyway. Once or twice she paused in her monologue, and he gave a “Hmm.” and she continued as though that were a more than sufficient answer to whatever statements she had made.

About half way through the meal she made a crass joke about murder and he was reminded that she was a dangers lunatic with a blood fetish and exactly why he didn't like spending time with her.

“...Are you okay, Will? You're scowling a bit.”

“I'm fine, thank you, Sutcliff. I was just... thinking about work.”

Grell pouted at him, gaze slightly accusatory over her glasses. “I distinctly remember being asked not to talk about work, and here you are getting preoccupied with it _anyway_. Just don't think about it. We aren't at work. Pretend you're enjoying my company instead.”

William had the feeling that it was probably a bad sign in a date when your partner knew you weren't enjoying her company – but then again this wasn't a date, and Sutcliff hadn't been his partner in any way at all since the final exam more than a century ago. This was a 'senior thing', and Sutcliff was just a colleague.

“I am enjoying your company,” he said anyway, because it was more polite to lie through your teeth about this sort of thing than to admit that you were only doing it to ensure that all productivity in the workplace did not grind to a halt. She looked surprised.

“Really?”

“Why shouldn't I be?”

The words _Because you hate me_ hovered clearly on her lips for a moment before she said, “You've not been speaking very much.”

“Maybe I'm enjoying listening to you doing something other than incessantly whining about the unfairness of having to do work and sexual misconduct.”

Grell blinked, and opened her mouth, then closed it again. “...Is that how you see me?”

“I hate to break this to you, but that's how you _are_.”

She looked incredibly put out. “I... I would be offended if I weren't so shocked.”

“And why are you ' _so shocked_ ', Grell?”

“Well, I just...” She blinked, and frowned, and he realized she was at a loss for words. “I... would like to believe there's a little more to me than _that_.”

“So would I.” _So would we all, to be honest. You are a nuisance and a hassle around the office every day_. He only realized that the words were in any way odd when she caught his eye again, raising her eyebrows.

“And what else would you like to see from me, exactly?” The lilting words were accompanied by her signature predatory grin, and William set his cutlery down on the side of his plate loudly. _We're done here_.

“A better work ethic and moral consciousness,” he informed her, and resisted the urge to stand up. He was not going to cause a scene here. He was not going to cause a scene anywhere. He was going to wrap up this night and lay it to rest, and curse Grell to hell and back if she attempted to organize an evening such as this ever again.

Grell eyed him, pointedly pushing her glasses up to enlarge her vivid eyes. “...Did I say something to piss you off, dar- Will?”

 _Your existence pisses me off_. It was an unfortunate fact, and one that he had done his best to get over over the years they had worked together. He didn't dislike her, exactly – she just got under his skin; irritated him in almost every action she took.

“No more than usual, Grell.”

She tilted her head at him like a curious animal as the waiter returned to take their plates and noted, “You keep saying my name.”

“I am talking to you.”

“Yes, you are.” She was halted by the abrupt arrival of the waiter, who had taken the initiative to present the bill; clearly he had served Grell often enough to see the exact point by which her date had gone sour enough to want to leave immediately. The bill was presented to William, and he remembered quite suddenly that, as the man in this situation, he would be footing the entirety of the surprisingly large bill. This did not improve his mood.

Grell thanked the waiter in a way that quietly suggested that they had slept together before, and William hauled her out of the door before realizing that he had gone out of his way to initiate physical contact with her. _Ah, damn_. He had no grounds on which to complain when she gasped delightedly and entangled herself around his arm as though she had the power to cement herself to him, causing his angry pace to slow a little, and then drag to a halt. She looked up at him and smiled, eyes wide and bright.

_No, don't look at me like that. Don't you dare._

He jumped before she had the chance to say anything, his arm still clutched in her own. As always pair jumping left him more than a little out of breath, and it took him a moment to gather his bearings. A grey lane, reaperside – and a wall full of doors, the only one conspicuous being bright red. Dear God, surely he hadn’t unconsciously managed to land right outside Grell's flat, had he? He'd only ever visited the place about twice.

She didn't seem to have noticed yet, the jump having disorientated her as much as their earlier jump had him. “W _ill_!” she scolded. “What happened to 'no jumping without warning'? Or did you feel compelled to sweep me off my feet in whatever way possible, to vault me back to wherever you want me?” She was grinning again, and he resisted the desire to summon his scythe to deal with her in the usual way.

“I brought you home,” he said instead, covering his mistake in an attempt to make it look purposeful. “I think we have already spent more than enough time in each other's company tonight.”

The way her lips twisted only suggested confusion, but irritation and disappointment sprang into her eyes together. “You could stay, you know. Even just for a short while. It's hardly late – it would be fun.”

“Honestly.” He shook his head at her and pulled his arm free, leaving her frowning at him in a sort of resentful confoundedness. “No, I shall be going, Grell -”

In fairness, she did not cut him off. Indeed, she seemed more horrified by the cloudburst than he was – the rain came down hard and fast like some obscure act of some terrible higher power with a fondness for shipping, drenching them both in moments. Grell shrieked, more in startlement than anything else, and abandoned William for the safety of her own porch, from which she called, “Why are you still here, Will?”

The water spattered his glasses with beads of blurriness, plastering his hair to his scalp and crawling down his back. He tried to jump, and failed. Tried again, and failed again. Two choices opened up before him, glowing paths in the rain; he could walk the half hour walk back to his own house, in this torrential downpour. The raindrops felt like ice through his clothes – he would be more than shivering by the time he got back. He would almost certainly come down with a cold, and have to take time off work. That was not an option.

It could not be long before the shower stopped, surely? And an equally brief time before his warp core managed to recharge enough to jump back. It would not kill him to seek shelter. Not even from this, the most unwanted of options.

Grell met his eyes from her perch on the porch and her eyebrows shot up. “You didn't.”

“...Shut up, Sutcliff.”

“You _didn't,_ surely not!” Her crowing grated on his nerves, as did the laughter she barked out at him. “You overjumped? With me? Oh _honey_ , come on! I would've let you in even if you'd had somewhere else to go, you didn't have to go to all this trouble to pass my doorstep.” Her teeth made him reconsider walking home. It couldn't be all that bad. It couldn't be worse than this.

“This is a serious situation, Grell.” She didn't think he had done it on purpose, did she? She knew him; he was her boss. She knew how much he disliked her – she knew he wouldn't...

She knew that he had just taken her out for a meal, told her that he had enjoyed listening to her speak and then become coincidentally unable not to enter her residence. Oh no. No, no, _no_.

“I will only impose on you for ten minutes whilst I regain my energy,” he told her. “Then I will leave you be.”

“You can stay longer if you want, my love!” He could see the way her eyes glittered even from down there, and wondered exactly how capricious she would be. Hopefully she knew not to push her limits – but she was pushing them _already_. “Of course, a _lot_ can happen in ten minutes, if you want. The shorter it is the sweeter, they say, darling. I'm sure I can come up with a way of _ener_ gizing you that little bit faster.”

Her eyebrows danced above her lewd Cheshire grin, and she turned to open the door, sweeping through it as though she were on stage. Lights flickered on, and William was suddenly, compulsively, drawn to their warmth.

 _Ten minutes._ He could avoid her advances for ten minutes, easily.

Surely.

Of course.

The relief at being out of the rain was instantaneous, and to his relief Grell showed no sign of jumping him the moment he stepped over the threshold. Instead she spread her arms wide, in much the same way she had earlier, and announced grandly “My home!”

William did not feel that the flat deserved such an entrance.

It was not as red as he had expected – the walls of the hallway were white, the doors were plain furnished wood, and the single practical key-rack in the wall beside the door was black. But this was only the corridor – and although Grell was big on first impressions, he somehow doubted that the rest of her décor could be quite so restrained.

She caught his arm whilst he wasn't paying attention and dragged him through, pointing out where everything was, as though she thought he would be staying. “There's the kitchen, through there's the spare room – it's almost never used, only when Ronnie needs a place to crash - and this is the sitting room. The bathroom and my room are down the corridor – please don't go into mine, it's off limits. It's a mess. The bathroom is the one with the lock on the door.”

Introduction made, she released him, and eyed her own clothes. “I'm going to get changed into something more _com_ fortable, and less... damp. Won't be a minute – sorry about you, I don't really have many men's clothes. And those I do probably wouldn't fit you.” Indecision wormed its way across her face very briefly, but then she shrugged. “I'll bring you a towel or something, okay?”

“Don't bother, I won't be staying long.” Either she didn't hear him or didn't care, because she left the room before he had finished.

The door made a very quiet click as it closed behind her, and William was left alone with his thoughts, mild regrets, and the expected red décor that had been missing from the hall. After a moment's hesitation he took a seat on the low red couch, noting how threadbare it was, and how sunken. It looked like a couch that had seen a lot of use, and he opted to not follow that train of thought to its obvious conclusion, instead taking the time to examine the rest of the room.

It was fairly red. Scarlet drapes framed the window that took up most of one wall, and a slightly patchy ruby rug covered the floor between the sofa and a small open fireplace, which sat choked with soot. Several chairs complemented the shade of the sofa, and several rows of cheery crimson shelves and a bookcase cohabited the length of one wall. The shelves were crammed with what appeared, to William's eyes, to be a random collection of junk, but he supposed each obscure item must have held some personal significance to his colleague – although a few of them had clearly been left there out of negligence rather than design. Several half used jars of nail-polish clustered at one end, and one or two pieces of jewellery glinted from forgotten corners, perhaps abandoned after dates.

The only conspicuous things that weren't red were the coffee table – the same shade of brown as the door – and some grey items on the shelves, which he abruptly recognised as half-hidden photographs. They were difficult to make out at the distance, but the familiarity of the subjects made them just about able to be discerned without getting up. One grinning face of Ronald Knox. Several of the Phantomhive demon who she found so attractive, and one of himself, shouting. _Yes, I remember that_. It had been the day he had banned photographic applications in the office block.

There were others, too; a few of Grell herself, having been taken by someone else, and some that just seemed to be London life. One high contrast of the skyline at night; another a view down a crowded street. They were almost artistic, and he wondered how she had the time to go out and take shots with a work schedule like hers.

His musing was cut short by Grell's re-arrival into the room. She had changed into another dress, this one lighter and less showy than the last. He had a nasty suspicion that it was a long nightdress, but was neither familiar enough with female bed-wear to be sure nor in any way prepared to ask. He eyed her warily as she crossed the room to monopolize the other end of the sofa, carefully tucking her legs underneath herself before meeting his eyes.

“R _eally_ , Will, don't look at me like that – you'll make my heart burst! I'm not going to do _any_ thing to you. Not unless you want to. Just say if you want me to do anything for you.” She was smiling again, but some of the usual fierceness seemed to have been lost with the dress change; she seemed placated, almost sleepy. It hadn't been a long night, but perhaps the relentless upholding of the conversation had wound her down. It had certainly taken its toll on _him_.

“...No, I am fine, thank you.”

She blinked at him, and for the first time in years he noticed how excessively long her eyelashes were. _Are those fake? Those must be fake. Why would you wear fake eyelashes?_ “Are you sure? Not even a coffee or anything? I've got...” her eyes flicked guiltily off to the side, and she bit her lip. “...biscuits and things, I think. Maybe.”

“Really, I am fine. Whilst I appreciate your hospitality, I do not wish to trouble you any further.” More like he didn't want any excuse to stay any longer than he had to nor touch anything in her residence, but it seemed risky to be rude to her in her own home. And unnecessary.

“Ah, but it's not trouble...” she caught his eye and fell suddenly silent, fingers playing absent-mindedly with the knees of her dress. The silence held for a minute before she pursed her lips in what appeared to be thought or perplexity, a minute crease of her brow following this trend, and began to edge closer to him.

“No, Sutcliff, don't-”

“Rela _aaaax_ ,” she murmured, and the gentleness of her voice shocked him into honouring the request. “Please, Will, just relax. I _said_ I'm not going to do anything to you. Please. I just want to be close to you. Allow me that.”

She settled herself very near him, leaving only inches of space between them – but inches were enough. She wasn't clinging or clutching or leaning on him; she was just... there. Close enough to touch him but, for perhaps the first time, not making any move to do so. If she were expending any great effort in restraining herself it didn't show; she leaned back against the couch and watched him through her extraordinarily dark, painted lashes.

“Thank you,” Grell breathed. “This has been really... Really nice, my darling. My dear. William. I didn't think you would... any of this.”

There was something in her eyes that he didn't recognise; where usually there pooled lust or blind adoration there sat something like regret, or very shallow despondency. Her fire had been doused in the presence of an uneventful night; dulled by his own company. He wondered why she had exerted so much effort for so little reward, knowing him, and herself, and that it had been a hundred years without anything passing between them. And suddenly he had to know.

“Why do you have feelings for me, Grell Sutcliff?”

She gave a little huff of amusement, a half smile returning to her face. “If I answer that you know I'll have to ask the same of you, Will.”

“I don't have feelings for you.”

“ _Mmm_ hm. You just keep telling yourself that, dearest; it'll make the eventual realization so much sweeter.”

He wondered if there was anything at all that could be said to dispel her pitiful attachment to him; to convince her that she was barking up a tree that was in all probability dead. She was not attractive as a man and she was equally unattractive as a woman, and he, William, was perfectly aware that he had no points to his being that could be considered good for her or anyone else, and didn't understand how she could feel anything for him but the same disgust he felt for her.

“...I should go.”

“No, don't!” The brief panic in her voice surprised him, as did the way she turned on her side as though about to grab hold of him, but then didn't. “Please don't go. Unless you've got something _pressingly_ important to do, why not stay? _Please._ ”

 _Why are you so desperate?_ A myriad of excuses built a wall in his mind that was knocked flat by the anxiety in her eyes. It was an anxiety that he knew; too often it could be seen in the faces of his subordinates when they talked to him, filing papers, reporting incidents. It was present when they thought they had made a fundamental mistake somewhere – or, more precisely, when they thought he was about to reprimand them harshly for such a mistake. Which, to be fair, he usually did.

But this was not work, and in this current situation she was not his subordinate, and that she was choosing this moment out of the whole night – hell, out of her whole _life_ – to feel that she had done something wrong annoyed him a lot.

“Give me one reason to stay.”

Her eyes widened. “Was that permission to-”

“ _No_.”

Deflating a little, she nodded. “You should stay because... No. _I_ want you to stay because I am enjoying your company. But if you are not enjoying mine, then you should go. There's no point in you staying with someone you...” she trailed off, and her voice dropped to a horrified whisper. “Someone you _hate_.”

 _But I don't hate you_. He didn't hate her, and he didn't love her – he simply didn't care about her. And given that she seemed to have somehow softened to something almost affable at this moment, he wasn't certain that the cold solitude offered by his own empty house would seem so homely after all. Tonight she was warm rather than scorching, and he felt it unlikely that he would ever see this side of her again.

So he said nothing, and moved only a little to settle himself more comfortably into the seat. Grell frowned at him, confused and then shocked and then overjoyed, and he watched these feelings flicker across her face and wished that she were less emotional. _Really._ It would be less hassle for them both if she could control herself.

She didn't say anything further, but moved slightly herself, drawing her legs in closer to herself and leaning very gently against his shoulder, which he decided to ignore. He had to ignore it; to acknowledge the touch would be to acknowledge the fundamental difference that it held, and in doing so highlight the fact that he had almost never been in physical contact with her without the intention to hurt her, for whichever offence she had committed each time. And there had been far too many times.

So he pretended he couldn't feel her; pretended that it didn't matter, that this was commonplace and that it meant nothing. He pretended that she was a stranger, and that helped, a bit.

He didn't know exactly when it was that she fell asleep, her head drooping to fall against his shoulder and her breaths easing into the slow rhythm of unconsciousness. Her hair fell across his chest, thin bright strands as though one of them was bleeding out. She smelled sweet, like some sort of flower – and suddenly he found himself having to quell the urge to put his arm around her.

This was more due to the discomfort of having his arm crushed between her shoulder and his own torso, but it worried him nonetheless. Grell was warm, her body strangely comfortable against his in spite of everything, and the slow, steady movement of her chest relaxed him. Once again he was finding it difficult to reconcile the brash, obnoxious red-head he worked with every day with the silent creature sleeping against him.

William wondered if leaving now would be a cruel thing to do. After all, it wasn't as though he could stay until morning.

This was the first time he had ever actually seen her asleep – not unconscious though violence or alcohol, nor in any sort of position where she should be doing anything other than sleeping. Her face held no trace of its usual flirtatiousness or cruelty; only the tiniest hint of happiness shaped her lips, relaxed as she was into what could only be described as utter serenity.

He couldn't bring himself to care.


End file.
